Titan of Industry
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: Neal reveals an unusual hobby during a stakeout, and it enriches his life in amazing and amusing ways.  A collection of four short stories.  Winner, Best Comedy, at the 2011 White Collar Awards.
1. The Briefcase

**Disclaimer:** Never! F[bleep!]k you, Jeff Eastin, they're MINE!

**Actual Disclaimer:** Okay, they're not mine. Don't sue me, please. I'm poor. *hides under table*

**Just for purposes of continuity:** Let's say this takes place before Point Blank. There aren't any spoilers for anything, but it's less complicated that way.

**I read about: **a challenge of giving a character a surprising hobby/interest/off-hours activity/etc. and decided to try it with Neal. I'm not sure if associating this particular activity with this particular character is such a surprise, given his other interests and his profession, but I thought it was funny, so I started typing.

**And of course: **because there's no "edit" switch in my brain, a single one-shot turned into four little linked stories, which is why the title of this first piece and the title you clicked on are different. I'll publish the four stories in order and end the whole thing by Christmas. Also, because this is mostly slice-of-life and comedy stuff, I promise, there are no nail biting cliff-hangers. But do feel free to click "Story Alert" anyway, so you'll know when something new is added. Concrit is always appreciated, please review/respond, and of course, enjoy. (-:

* * *

**THE BRIEFCASE**

It was Peter's fault, really. He was the one who'd publicly upbraided Neal in the bullpen for being such a "handcuff-cracking nuisance" in the surveillance van. He was the one who smirked as Neal's cheeks went a little pink and Jones and Diana elbowed each other behind him. And he was the one who insisted that since they'd need Neal as an extra pair of eyes for what was promising to be a grueling stakeout of a bank, the ex-con had better bring something quiet and productive to do, or things would not go well for him.

A few hours later, everybody converged on the surveillance van. They clambered in, dropped off their supplies, and took up their positions. Jones had brought his DS and his earphones, outwardly stoic but inwardly gleeful about getting to play as many rounds of Angry Birds as he could manage during his breaks. He set the carrying case on the desk area and sat down at the monitors for first shift. Diana set up next to him at the audio station. She'd sensibly brought along a small tote bag stuffed with a few paperbacks and an airplane pillow. Peter had brought a copy of Finnegan's Wake and a brown bag containing two of Elizabeth's famous deviled ham sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. He began supervising. Neal quietly took a seat at the back.

Neal had brought a briefcase, which everyone assumed was full of case files. They all shared a quick look of pride; here was a former felon, now a part of their team and a friend, getting ready to spend some quality time reviewing cases and thinking things over. Maybe he'd have some ideas for them by the time the stakeout was done. And, if nothing else, a briefcase was the exact thing Neal needed to complete his day-to-day look and give him an air of respectability. He'd brought a dark brown leather number with gold snaps and a slick black handle. It was masculine, handsome, and the perfect accessory for his crisply ironed, well-tailored suit. Neal liked the briefcase because it looked good.

But mostly, he liked it because it was ironic.

His blue eyes darted between the team at the monitors and his briefcase as he opened it, making sure everyone was looking the other way. He was hoping to go unnoticed for at least half an hour, and he worked quickly, gathering his supplies and tugging the fingering-weight Panda Cotton Delft Blue out about a foot so that he could feed it through one of the three holes he'd drilled in the case right near the snaps. He pulled it through, snapped the case shut, set it at his feet, tied a slip knot, and got to work. Click-click, click-click, click-click.

Neal had been a fan of bamboo for a while, mostly because of the way the wood warmed up under his fingers. So he'd been thrilled to discover that there was a pretty large Michael's within his two-mile radius, and they carried Clover, which was his favorite company on earth for this type of work, bar none. The internet supplied most of his "raw" goods, like the lovely cotton he was industriously working on his circular size 1s. It was July, so a light summer project was just the ticket, and he wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to finish it.

He liked to keep things pretty simple when it came to small items like this, and he favored single color, basic stockinette with ribbing up top and well made heels and toes; nothing too fancy. He worked for about fifteen minutes, meditatively clicking away, and he'd hit row 9 when he realized that the van had gone completely quiet. He looked up.

Everybody was staring at him. Jones was blinking, Diana was pulling off her headphones, and Peter was trying, without much success, to mash down a smile.

Neal challenged their gazes with his own. "What?"

"What the hell are you doin', man?" Jones asked incredulously, and Peter lost it.

Neal ignored his giggling handler and speared Jones with a flinty glance. "I'm knitting a sock," he said loftily. "The other one is already done." He flicked open the case a crack and pulled out the equally Delft Blue finished product. "See?"

Peter just kept laughing, and Jones joined him. But Diana, interestingly enough, didn't tease him too hard. "That sock is just too precious. You know what, though, you're pretty fast. It's kind of cool."

"Thanks," Neal said tightly.

"How long you been knitting?"

"A while," Neal said evasively.

Diana snorted. "Please. Speed like that? You've been at it for years. Did Grandma Caffrey teach you?"

Neal raised an eyebrow. "No. Don't you have some conversations to record?"

Diana took the hint and went back to her audio, and Neal went back to his knitting. Of course, he only had a few minutes of peace before he was interrupted by Peter, who had lost interest in the monitors and decided to annoy him.

"So. Knitting in public. Wow." Peter shook his head. "You know what that says about you, right?

Neal didn't even look up. "Yup. It says that I'm a guy who's completely secure in his masculinity. It says I'm a consummate artist who appreciates all sorts of creative outlets. It says that I'm proudly honoring a tradition that goes back thousands of years. It says I can use my hands for good things, too." Then he finally stopped knitting for a second and gave Peter a false, bright smile. "But I'm sure whatever comment you came up with is witty and original, and I've never heard it before. What were you going to say?"

Peter just glared at him. Neal gave himself an imaginary point and cheerfully went back to work.

Because it wasn't his shift at the monitors yet, he didn't stop for the next hour and a half, and finished the sock. He cut the final bit of yarn, expertly wove it in, and inspected his work with satisfaction. Three slow claps got his attention. Peter, still bored, had watched him finish and was now giving him some high quality sarcastic applause. Neal ignored the sarcastic part and gave his partner a toothy smile.

"Thanks. These will be really great. And I think I brought a pair to darn … where's that darning egg? I know it's in here somewhere," he mumbled, flicking open the briefcase.

Peter looked over Neal's shoulder and caught a glimpse of the inside of the case. Little pockets had been neatly sewn into one wall for all his needles, there was a partitioned mesh cage in the middle to hold and separate about nine different balls of yarn, and the other wall was packed with neatly folded instructions and some completed projects, including a pair of socks that were worn down in the heels. Neal grabbed these and realized the darning egg was sitting in one of the socks.

"Ah!" he said. "Great." And he plucked a tapestry needle from the little pincushion on the needle side.

"Oh my God, are you kidding me?" Peter burst out. "Neal, if you ever had a Man Card, I'm just letting you know, it's been ripped up. You're out of the club."

"Knock it ah, Peter," Neal said through taut lips. He was holding the tapestry needle in his mouth while he hunted in the mesh basket for the matching yarn. "Yerr juss jellish uh ma' shkill."

That got a laugh. "Yeah, that's what this is. Raging jealousy. You know, you actually remind me of this cartoon I saw as a kid."

Neal had found his prize, and he threaded the needle. "You're hilarious," he deadpanned. "Keep it up."

"No, really! It was this old black-and-white Looney Tunes one. I must have seen it a hundred times."

Neal had the heel of the sock tight over the egg, and he made the first overstitch. "They had television when you were a kid? I thought you just watched firelight on cave walls."

Peter rolled his eyes. "_Anyway_, it was this one where Porky Pig was having a birthday party." Jones was still watching the monitor, but he perked up and listened. "He invites all these crazy guests, and he gets a silkworm as a gift. Well, the silkworm does nothing but knit for the entire cartoon. And really fast, too, with this little dainty music in the background. It makes socks, briefs, floofy ladies underpants, bras … underwear just blooms from this little creature every time you see it. It's fantastic."

Neal blinked. "Are you comparing me to something with wings and a teeny tiny brain? Peter, if you keep up this blatant verbal abuse, in front of witnesses, no less, I'm going to have to take my revenge. Just letting you know."

Jones had turned away from the monitors to watch Neal work and go at it with Peter. He stretched his arms over his head and enjoyed the banter.

Peter snorted. "What are you going to do?"

"Knit you a hat."

Peter made jazz hands. "Ooooh, I'm so scared."

"You should be. My knitted hat philosophy is the stupider, the better."

"I thought that was your regular hat philosophy, Deano," Peter jabbed.

Neal narrowed his eyes. "Oh, it. Is. On. You're going to look like a Lapland reindeer herder when I get through with you."

Jones grinned, and Peter didn't look very frightened at all. "Eh, big deal. I don't care if you knit me a stupid hat. You can't make me wear it."

"Hmm. This is true," Neal said, concentrating on his darning. "How about I just give it to Elizabeth, and _she_ can take care of that?"

Peter suddenly looked a little alarmed. And Neal looked at the monitors in concern.

"Hey, Jones, what is that?"

"What's what?" Jones spun back to the monitor. "Whoa! We got runners and bags of money!" Diana snapped her fingers to let everyone know she had something, too.

"Everybody move in!" Peter said. Neal looked hopeful and stood up. Exasperated, Peter shot at him, "What you going to do, beat someone with your darning egg? Stay in the van! God, you and your stupid knitting! We almost missed this!"

"Wha-?" Neal said, but they were already moving. Jones and Diana looked apologetic, but Peter just barreled out the door. They closed it behind them and left Neal alone.

Neal sighed, but he immediately got on the radio and ordered backup to the scene. It turned out to be unnecessary, because he watched on the monitor as Peter and Jones caught the two thieves in a flying tackle and Diana started handcuffing them. He did as he was told, though, and stayed in the van. While he waited for the rest of the team to settle things up with NYPD and get the offenders taken away, he kept darning. About an hour later the three FBI agents came back into the van. He'd finished his task and was carefully putting his supplies away.

"Well, we got 'em," Jones said.

"Good catch, Neal," Diana added.

"No. Uh uh. Don't you compliment him," Peter scolded her. "It's his fault we were distracted in the first place. I bet you the reason we missed those guys going _into_ the bank is because that's when we were staring at Suzy Homemaker over there."

Neal was speechless with disbelief. Of course, that didn't last long. "Suzy Homemaker?"

"Oh, shush."

"Don't you shush me!" Neal said, and his tone was angry enough to surprise Jones and Diana. "You don't get to blame me because you missed something. I sat there, I made a sock, I fixed another sock, and I didn't make any problems, because you said, and I quote, 'bring something quiet and productive to do.' So I did. If anybody's at fault here, it's you, Peter."

It was the right thing to say, and yet it was the wrong thing to say. Peter's face looked like a storm cloud and Neal actually backed up a step.

"Caffrey, I swear to God … pack up your little, I don't know, nose-thumb at traditional American masculinity, or whatever it is, and get out of here. You are never allowed to knit in the surveillance van again. I forbid it."

"Fine," Neal said, standing up and grabbing his briefcase. "The next time I go on a stakeout, I'll just read. And once I've finished my book, I'll sit around and play with the handcuffs."

The two men stared each other down.

* * *

Two weeks later, they were on another stakeout. Jones and Diana were again at the monitors and audio, Peter was lounging in a chair and reading the newspaper, and Neal was sitting quietly in the corner. One of their undercover guys was posing as a grubby dock worker, and he let himself into the van with the intention of speaking to Peter. But he was brought up short by Neal, who was hard at work on another sock project. (The previous pair of socks had gone to a good home, and even though Neal had been sad to part with them, they'd solved a problem.) The ex-con was fully focused on his task and the needles were quietly clacking away. The undercover guy looked at Neal like he was about to laugh, and then looked at Peter. The lead agent's glare wiped the smile off the new arrival's face.

"He's with us. Leave him alone and let him work," Peter said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "What's going on, Jimmy?"

Jimmy stammered his way through an explanation of what they'd found out so far, and as Peter listened to the report, he put his feet up on the desk area. His pant legs rode up, exposing a comfortable, flattering pair of handmade Delft Blue socks.

- END -


	2. Cashmere

**Continuity:** While the first story was set in July of this year, this one is set a few months later. So, by necessity, it takes place after **Point Blank**. The episode is vaguely referenced. Also referenced are: **The Pilot**, **Company Man** (season 2), and the season one finale, **Out of the Box**.

* * *

**CASHMERE**

A golden leaf blustered through the air and plastered itself to the back of Elizabeth's jacket. It clung there as she walked. The trees of New York were having their own version of Fashion Week, rustling their elegant branches and showing off their red and gold finery. It was 10/10/10, the air was warm and breezy, and Indian summer was in full swing. Having just finished an elegant reception at a nearby hotel, Elizabeth clicked down the sidewalk in her modest heels, looking every inch the professional party planner in her dark tights and fun polka dot dress. She wandered past a myriad of small specialty shops and boutiques, occasionally stopping to peer into windows.

With a frustrated sigh, she turned from the display of house wares she was admiring and looked around. The serendipity perked her right up. Walking towards her on the opposite side of the street was the perfect person to give her an idea for a gift.

Neal was approaching, dressed smartly as usual and apparently out for a stroll. He hadn't seen her, so she took the opportunity to see what he was up to in this part of town. He stopped almost directly across the street from her underneath a large maple tree and looked back and forth with almost comical indecision between two very different neighboring storefronts: a tiny modern art gallery called Zazz and a bohemian craft shop called Yarn n' Stuff that was advertising some giant blowout sale in neon orange window paint.

Elizabeth saw he wasn't going anywhere for a second. She tugged her phone out of her purse and called his cell, and watched with a smile as he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Look across the street."

Neal spun around warily, but when he saw her waving at him, he gave her a grin and ended the call. After making sure the coast was clear, he jaywalked and trotted over to her.

"Elizabeth! What brings you out here?"

"I was working in the neighborhood, and thought I'd look for a gift for Peter. He's turning the big 'four five' next Friday, and I'm totally at a loss. I just can't seem to come up with any ideas. I'm trying to get some inspiration." She looked hopeful. "You wouldn't have any suggestions, would you?"

Neal thought for a moment. He was _very_ tempted to suggest a beer helmet, preferably the yellow construction worker model, but Elizabeth didn't deserve that, so he politely demurred. "You know, I really don't think I'm the right guy to ask."

"Oh, nonsense!" she said, hooking her free arm through his. "You know Peter very well. Come on, you spend more time with my husband than I do, these days." Neal raised an amused eyebrow at her. "That didn't come out right, but it's true."

Neal conceded the point with a nod of his head, and they walked together down the tree-lined street. "Well," he said as they passed a little bakery, "I know he likes gadgets. Maybe you could get him a little private coffeemaker for his office. You know, one of those where you put your cup inside, press a button and it does everything else for you."

He meant it as a joke, because Peter drank way too much coffee and was hopeless at making it, but Elizabeth looked thoughtful. "That's actually a great idea. I think Keurig makes a good one, and it has those little gourmet packets. I'll do some research tonight and order him something nice."

Neal smiled. Peter would be happy to try out different kinds of coffee packets, especially after his experience with luxury grinds during that undercover assignment. The gift would be lovely. But really, he was smiling because he'd dodged a bullet.

He was immensely relieved that Elizabeth had called him when she did because, curse his thrice-damned weakness for high-quality, half-price Merino wool, he would have ignored the art gallery and gone to town at Yarn n' Stuff. And then he'd have been screwed, because Elizabeth wasn't an FBI agent's wife for nothing. He was sure she'd have followed him in and demanded an explanation.

Inexplicably, Peter hadn't yet told her about the knitting. (Neal had been waiting for the axe to fall since July.) Elizabeth hadn't said anything, which was how Neal knew she didn't know, and whatever the reason, he was grateful for Peter's forbearance. Just the thought of Elizabeth finding out sent a shiver down his spine. He had actually woken up from a nightmare a few nights ago in which she was offering him her extra yarn, pleading for help with knitting patterns and inviting him to join a Stitch-n-Bitch, or something equally group-oriented and noisy and appalling. The memory of it set his teeth on edge. In any case, he was very glad she was unaware.

It was weird to compartmentalize this way, but he couldn't help himself. Peter, Diana and Jones all knew, and it didn't bother him because they were coworkers and they were all cool with it. Elizabeth was different, though. He liked her very much, and against all odds, he had her respect. (He hoped.) She was invariably the peacemaker between him and Peter when things got rough, she was kind, and she fed him. He didn't want to jeopardize any of this, especially since he had so much working against him.

Elizabeth liked the men in her life to be nice and sturdy and, well, manly. Exhibit A: the guy she was shopping for. Neal was no idiot. He knew that next to Peter he failed the "sturdy" part, and probably the "nice" part, too. All that left was "manly," and his success there was pretty debatable. Any mention of knitting and he'd be laughed out the door, he just knew it. After his terrible loss in May and daring to put a little trust in the Burkes, and then almost destroying his relationship with Peter two months ago and having to repair it – it still wasn't completely fixed – he couldn't risk the heartbreak of telling her. Better to keep his mouth shut and delay her discovery as long as he could.

Suddenly he realized the crook of his elbow was cool and empty. He was alone. "Elizabeth?"

He turned and looked through the crowds and was relieved to catch sight of her about twenty feet back the way they had come, standing mesmerized in front of a big glass window. He walked towards her and smiled when he saw what had done it: mannequin after mannequin in luxurious cashmere sweaters. The way her dark hair was fluttering around her shoulders and the way her beautiful, light-catching eyes scanned the display …

The memory assaulted him out of the blue. Seven years ago, he was walking with Kate in midtown, maybe ten dollars between them, and she was brought up short by a similar window display of cashmere sweaters.

"Baby, I want one," she said, with that perfect pout of her lips. It had always made him her willing slave.

So just before closing time he slipped into the store with a small pair of plastic pliers, cut the electronic tag on a beautiful gray sweater, and smuggled it out under his jacket. She gave a delighted squeal when he presented it to her back at their crappy apartment, tried it on … and howled with laughter, because Neal, master forger and all around "details" man, had stolen a sweater that was about four sizes too big. But she slept in it and made breakfast in it and loved it until the rips finally surpassed his mending efforts and it fell apart.

As Neal looked at Elizabeth's profile now, his thoughts roamed to the wooden box under his bed in June's loft. There was one particular item inside that box that he really shouldn't keep. And now he knew exactly where it should go.

"Neal?"

He blinked at Elizabeth. "What?"

She smiled. "You zoned out a little. Everything okay?"

He put his mask on immediately and smiled back. "Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. I can see you have an eye for the finer things," he said, gesturing at the window.

"Mmm," she sighed. "Cashmere is wonderful, but those sweaters are so darn expensive!"

"Do you own one?" he asked.

"No," she said grumpily. It was so overdone that he smirked. "It isn't fair." Shrugging off the loss, she went on. "Oh, well. I suppose I should get busy. I need to pick up some cute wrapping paper for that imaginary coffee machine," she commented with a wink. "Although, I think I'll get lunch first. Hey, you want to come with? Have you eaten?"

"Uh…" Suddenly he realized this was it. This was what he would lose if Elizabeth found out: the easy camaraderie, the gentle mothering. Everything would change. (The logical part of his brain was yelling at him that he was being a moron and this was completely untrue, but he wasn't listening to himself.) "Actually, I have," he lied, ignoring his empty belly. Her kindness was suddenly overwhelming. He had to escape. "And I have to run this ridiculous errand for Moz, so if you'll excuse me, I should go."

"Okay." She wasn't buying anything he'd just said, he could tell, but she was letting it slide. "Well, thanks for your excellent suggestion, and I'm sure I'll see you soon enough, but until then, be well."

He nodded. "You, too. See you later." He walked carefully in the other direction, checking over his shoulder every twelve steps to make sure she was innocently continuing on her way, and then when she was out of sight, he took off at a quick pace for the craft store. Somewhere in the middle of talking to Elizabeth, he'd finalized what he wanted to give Peter for his birthday. A card with a cupcake on it wasn't going to cut it this year, especially not after the Fowler incident … or any number of other things he'd done, if he was honest with himself.

He needed some private time to work, and he needed to sketch out some patterns, but mostly he needed some raw materials. After one final look around to make sure he hadn't been spotted, he ducked into Yarn n' Stuff and grabbed a basket.

* * *

A week later on Friday evening, Peter and Elizabeth were hanging out in their pajamas. The birthday dinner was over, the "4" and "5" candles had been extinguished, the tiny cake split between them and devoured, the ice cream consumed, and now Peter was sitting on the floor next to the couch and making a mess. Elizabeth watched him go at it with amusement. She had wrapped the hell out of his present; he was struggling to get all the paper and ribbons off, but he was kind of enjoying it. Satchmo was having fun nosing around in the refuse. When the last bit of stuff came off and he finally read the box, he was very excited.

"Elle, this is great. Does this mean I don't have to drink the office coffee anymore?" he asked hopefully.

Elizabeth smiled and shook her head. "No more of that for you, mister. You can make your own gourmet coffee, one cup at a time. Touch of a button. Plus, it's very quiet and discreet. You can keep it in your office next to your desk."

Peter tugged her down gently and kissed her. "You're a genius. I love it." Then… "Oooh, hey, check it out. It's got a specialty roast function!"

Just then, the doorbell rang. Elizabeth left Peter on the floor intently scanning the box that held his new toy, and went to answer it. To her surprise, yet again, it was Neal. The weather had turned, so he was standing there bundled in a coat and holding a large, festive gift bag.

"Hi," he said quietly. "I didn't want to intrude. I was just going to drop this off and then –"

Elizabeth grabbed his arm and tugged him inside. "Get in here."

She knew things between Neal and her husband were still a little off-kilter, even though it had been nearly two months since the "incident." (She'd heard all about it.) Neal had made himself scarce for a while – yet another reason she'd been happy to run into him the other day – so the fact that he was here now, with a bag for Peter no less, was very promising.

"Peter, you have a special delivery!" she said, and gave Neal a slight push into the living room.

She shut the door, and as Neal shed his coat he cracked a smile at the sight of Peter, barefoot in sweats and a t-shirt, surrounded by wrapping paper and holding his coffee machine possessively. Peter blinked at him in confusion.

"Neal, what are you doing here?"

"I come bearing gifts," he said. "I heard someone was having a birthday."

Something softened in Peter's eyes. "You didn't have to –"

"Yes I did." He sat down on the couch and began to open the bag. Peter reached for the first present he removed, but Neal pulled it away. "Ah ah, this isn't for you. It's for Elizabeth."

Elizabeth accepted the present with a smile and sat down on the couch with Neal, so she could watch the show. Neal drew a small three-present tower from the bag and handed it to Peter with a flourish.

"Oh, great, more wrapping paper," Peter groused, but he started tearing into it immediately.

"Wait, wait, hold up," Neal said. "You have to read the cards before you open the presents."

"But, why do I get a present?" Elizabeth asked. "It's not my birthday."

"Well, consider it an early Christmas present; I just didn't want to wait until Christmas to give it to you. It's a fall thing."

That was all the encouragement she needed, and Neal watched in amusement as both Burkes attacked their gifts. Satchmo wandered over and put his head in Neal's lap. Neal absently started scratching him behind the ears.

"Okay," Peter said. "First gift. And the card reads … _I hope these aren't useless._" With a suspicious glance at Neal, he opened the small package, and was delighted to find a nice selection of gourmet coffee packets for his new coffee machine. "Hey, they're the same brand! Did you help Elizabeth with my gift?"

Neal and Elizabeth looked at each other. "We bumped into each other last week. I'm just glad those will work out. You need to have some extra supplies for your new machine, right?"

Peter smiled. "Yeah, I do. Okay, next one. Card says …_ open this later; it's a surprise for your wife._"

"Peter?" Elizabeth said.

"Yes?"

"Surprise me."

"Okay." He opened the little box. "We have … reservations?" Inside the box was a small card announcing that Peter and Elizabeth Burke had a standing reservation for any point during the last two weeks in October at... Peter turned the card over and was floored by the name of the restaurant on the back. "Neal, this is –"

"Taken care of. You have something important coming up," he said, with a very significant stare. "I thought I could help iron out some of the details this year."

And Peter finally figured it out. He grinned. He wouldn't take it in the teeth this time, that was for sure. "Honey, we're going to dinner at Del Posto for our anniversary," he announced.

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open. "Are you kidding? Getting reservations there is impossible. The wait list's a mile long. Oh, this will be wonderful!" She turned to the man who'd organized it. "Thank you, Neal."

Neal waved her off. "A friend owes me a favor. It's not a problem."

Peter was left with one present. He opened the very traditional little birthday card and wrinkled his brow. "_Happy 45__th__ … Revenge is mine?_" He glanced at Neal and ripped open the package. His big eyes and gasp of horror were so priceless that Neal started laughing, and he laughed even harder when Peter tried to smash the paper box shut. "Jackass," he said gruffly and smacked Neal in the leg with the box. It had no effect on him; he just kept chuckling.

Elizabeth decided to ask later. She'd gotten all her wrapping paper off, but had kept the box closed. "Can I open my present, now?"

Neal had recovered some of his composure. "Yeah, go ahead."

Elizabeth opened her present and gasped too, but it was a happy gasp. From the box she carefully lifted a beautiful cashmere sweater in a gorgeous plum color, with a demure neckline and drop sleeves. When she held it up to herself, the color popped against her peachy skin and dark hair.

Peter stared. "You need to put that on."

Elizabeth didn't need to hear this twice. She shrugged out of her loose, draped house jacket and put on the sweater. For a few moments she was mentally elsewhere, rubbing her arms in bliss, and then she came back to herself and saw two amused men looking at her.

"It fits you perfectly. I take it you like it?" Neal asked.

Elizabeth looked at him like he was nuts. "It's _cashmere_. Of course I like it. Where did you find this? Oh wait, maybe the tag says …" And she started feeling along the back of the neckline. She stopped in confusion. "There's no tag. Is this…" She looked disappointed. "Oh, no. Neal, did you steal this?"

Neal was bewildered but took no offense because sadly, this was a reasonable question. "What? No! No, I didn't. There's no tag because it's handmade." And then his heart leaped into his throat. His stupid answer had just swung the barn door wide open. Not sewing in a fake tag … of all the rookie mistakes! He mentally kicked himself and scrambled to cover. "Alex made it."

Peter's eyebrows went up, and a corner of his lips followed.

"Alex," said Elizabeth. She didn't sound convinced. "Alex … Hunter? The fence? That Alex?"

"Yes, that Alex. She knits in her spare time. She's surprisingly crafty. Anyway, yeah, she finished this thing, and then she decided she didn't like the color. So I bought it off her and wrapped it up, and … yeah."

Peter finally started snickering. Neal glared at him, but that had about as much effect as Peter swinging the box against Neal's leg. Elizabeth took Neal's hand and re-focused his attention, waiting patiently until he looked her in the eye. She spoke deliberately.

"Neal, I know."

Neal's train of thought (and his heart) stopped for a second, and a string of curse words flitted through his head in place of an actual comeback. "No you don't," he said quickly.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Yes, I do. Peter told me back in July, but I wasn't quite sure how to broach the subject, so I didn't."

Neal bowed his head with a heavy sigh. "Please don't laugh."

"What?" Elizabeth sounded angry. "Neal Caffrey, you look at me."

Startled, Neal did, but there was no censure in her gaze.

"I always knew you were an amazing artist, but I had no idea your talents extended in this direction. This is incredible. I love it. And I would never in a million years laugh at you. For heaven's sakes, you're a straight, single man who can knit a cashmere sweater. This is unheard of. You're a freak of nature. You're a miracle." She squeezed his hand.

The tension was broken. Neal gave a small smile. "Oh, go on."

"I'm serious, Neal. Why aren't you married, anyway?" she teased.

Just as quickly as it came, the smile faded. "Well, I was planning on it. I didn't have the ring yet, but that sweater…" He finally realized he was babbling and clammed up, but it was too late.

Elizabeth turned serious as she put the pieces together. She closed her eyes for a moment. "You made this for her, didn't you?" There was no need for a name.

After a long pause, Neal finally nodded.

"I brought it with me to the hangar. I was going to give it to her on the plane." Another awkward silence. "She, um, she never got the chance to wear it, so it was just sitting in my loft at June's. I saw you looking at those sweaters and I thought I would give it to someone who'd appreciate it." He shrugged.

To his relief, Elizabeth didn't treat him any differently now that she knew he'd made the sweater. She didn't give him any pitying looks or coo at him like some delicate pet bird. She just scooted along the couch and gathered him into a quick, tight embrace, then pulled away and held his shoulders.

"It's beautiful. I'll wear it forever, and I'm so glad you decided to give it to me. And I know this sounds really 'Doctor Phil,' but I think it's great that you're moving on. It's very healthy."

Neal nodded shyly. "Thanks. I'm just glad you like it."

"I do. And now that we've had our 'moment,' tell me … what on earth did you give my husband that scared him so badly?"

Peter looked startled now that the attention was back on him. He pushed the box behind him. "It's nothing," he said.

Neal smiled. He had no secrets to keep. "In July, Peter was insulting me in the van and I threatened to knit him a stupid hat, so I did."

"Neal, shut up." Peter turned to Elizabeth. "I'm never putting it on."

"Oh, yes you are," said Elizabeth. "I want to see it."

"Noooo way," Peter said. "You're never clapping eyes on this thing. It's hideous!"

"Peter, just show me."

"No."

"Neal, help me."

"How?" Neal asked.

"I'll tickle him and you grab the box."

"What?" Peter squeaked, but it was too late. Elizabeth used the fact that she was on the couch and Peter was on the floor to her fullest advantage; she pounced on him and tickled his ribs. He was so busy shouting with laughter, rolling around on the floor, trying not to knock into the coffee machine and fending her off, that the box was undefended. Neal snatched it up from amidst the scattered wrapping paper. He handed it to Elizabeth, who hopped back up on the couch, and he casually pushed Peter back over on his ass on the floor to give her a chance to look inside.

She crowed in delight. "Neal, it's hilarious!"

"Make him wear it in public," Neal said.

"Don't listen to him!" Peter said, struggling to get up. Satchmo had decided to play, and was trying to sit on him.

Neal grinned as the dog snuffled Peter and Peter gave up on his mission for a moment. He felt lighter than he had in months.

Elizabeth was still admiring the present. "Peter, this is… What's it going to take to get this hat on your head?"

"An act of God," Peter quipped, plucking a sticky-back present bow out of his hair and trying to shove the dog away.

Elizabeth frowned at him. Neal picked up on Elizabeth's annoyance and tried to diffuse it. "Uh, maybe something a little more human-oriented," he offered pointedly.

Peter took the hint. "I get to name the condition?" She nodded, so he stroked his chin and carefully framed his response as Satchmo finally clambered off him. "Hmm." He never wanted to wear this thing out on the street. Considering the class of criminals he worked with and Neal's healthy instincts for self-preservation, he had this in the bag. He smiled. "Okay, I got it. I will wear this hat … if Neal saves my life."

Elizabeth groaned and Neal smirked.

"Takes a bullet for me, saves me from a bunch of violent white collar criminals who want to kill me, drags me from a burning building … literally, physically, gets in there and saves my freakin' life," Peter said. There. Three of the most unlikely scenarios he could think of. "Anything short of absolute heroism and it'll never see the light of day."

"That's not fair!" Elizabeth protested. "I know there have been a couple of close shaves, but that stuff doesn't happen to you guys. I mean, I'm thrilled that it doesn't, but you'll never wear the hat that way!"

"I think that was the point," Neal pointed out gently, and tried not to look too disappointed as he nodded at Peter. "Well played, sir."

"Oh, come on, Peter, just put the hat on for me," Elizabeth pleaded. "Please?"

Peter could only look at his wife's fluttering eyelashes and big doe eyes for so long. He caved. "All right, I'll do it, but only for you. Caffrey's gotta leave."

Elizabeth looked at Neal, who took this as his cue. He grabbed his coat and checked his watch. "Wow, gee, look at the time. It's so late!" It was 7:15. "I guess I should be getting home." He held out a hand. "Happy Birthday, Peter."

Peter shook Neal's hand warmly, without hesitation. "Thanks, Neal. I'll pick you up on Monday?"

"Sounds good."

Elizabeth hugged Neal again, thanked him one more time for the sweater, tried to send him away with some leftovers (which he politely declined) and finally let him leave.

The evening had gone a little chilly. Neal shut the door behind him, stood on the front porch and buttoned himself into his coat, and heaved a breath that misted in the air. That had gone about a million times better than he'd hoped, and the string of tension in his shoulders had snapped. He was loose in relief. Speaking of hopes, he stopped and listened, and sure enough…

"Oh, Peter, you look so cute!" Elizabeth squealed, muffled by the door.

Neal smiled in victory, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and trotted off down the steps.

– END –

* * *

**Author's Note: **Something occurred to me after I finished writing this piece, so I'll throw it in here as a side note. For those unfamiliar with the Curse of the Boyfriend Sweater, there is a widely held superstition among knitters that it's bad luck to knit your significant other a sweater because the gift will doom the relationship. The reasoning goes that the recipient will probably not be half as grateful for the gift as they ought to be, which leads to resentment on the knitter's part that builds and builds, which leads to fights, and finally to a break-up. Kate never even saw the pretty cashmere sweater, but Neal made it for her, and after thinking about the combination of what I'd cooked up and what happened to Kate on the show, I realized that Neal's gift coincides with the _very _explosive end of their love affair. So, for everybody on the show who's investigating Kate's death, I'm going to put this out there, people: I don't think we can rule out the Curse of the Boyfriend Sweater (well, Girlfriend Sweater.)

For those of you who are wondering about that last sentence, yes, I'm kidding. Go click the purple arrow button. More idiotic knitted goodness awaits you. :-)


	3. Alice

**Continuity**: This advances us another month, so it is also post **Point Blank**. (-: The only gently referenced episode is **All In** (season 1).

**Things of interest**: The musical piece described in this tale is the Toccata and Fugue in G major for organ by J.S. Bach, BVW 541. Get yourself to YouTube and have a listen. It's great. Also, heads up, there's some profanity near the end of the story.

* * *

**ALICE**

The Monday before Thanksgiving, Neal got some bad news over breakfast. Two years and some change into his prison sentence, he'd used a little of his allotted computer time to set up a small program that ran a daily Google search for a specific name. If the name came up attached to recent news, he got an email. It had been running since 2007 without so much as a peep, and he'd forgotten all about it, so the ping on his Blackberry was a surprise. It took him a moment to realize it was from the program. It was also clear that this would be its one and only message. He put down his English muffin and tapped the link, which led him to that morning's Times, specifically to page A 27. Since he had an actual copy of the paper right there next to him, he found the page and scanned it. There it was, down at the bottom left. He let out a slow breath.

The obituary was brief. Oddly, it had more to say about the method of burial than the life of the person who had died. As freethinking in death as in life, the deceased had chosen a natural burial at Greensprings in Newfield, a cemetery/nature preserve about 200 miles northwest of the city. The preparation and simple burial were both deliberately free of chemicals, and the body had been wrapped in a cotton shroud and "given back to the earth." An oak tree had been planted next to the grave in accordance with the deceased's wishes, and a natural slate bench would be set up nearby so people could rest their legs.

The burial proper had already taken place on Sunday, but fortunately, a memorial service was scheduled for Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, at the Church of the Resurrection, just east of Central Park. Just outside his radius, for that matter. If he was going to this service, and he _was_ going to this service, come hell or high water, he'd need to be accompanied by an officer of the law.

"Great," he mumbled. He left his half-eaten muffin on the plate and hurried to get dressed. Peter was picking him up for work in twenty minutes, and he'd lost his appetite anyway.

* * *

The logistics of asking Peter turned out to be tricky. Peter spent the car ride to work brooding about something, so that wasn't the right time. Then they got buried in paperwork all day, and didn't even see each other for lunch. Catching him on a coffee break was out, because he was totally into that stupid coffee machine Elizabeth had gotten him, and instead of filling up at the coffee station, he got his fix in his office while Neal was busy in the bullpen. Finally, when it was almost time to close up shop, he seized his chance. He leaned in Peter's doorway and knocked. Peter glanced up from some reports, looking tired and bored, but not angry or uncooperative or annoyed. There was hope.

"Hey, um, I need a favor on Wednesday evening," Neal said. "I want to go pay my respects to someone at a church, but it's out of my radius. If we don't have a case, could you go with me?"

Peter narrowed his eyes at the younger man. It intrigued him that Neal was giving him a whole two days' notice. Impressive, considering that Neal usually liked to spring things on him at the last second. He really wanted this badly, then. But despite their working partnership and developing friendship, Peter was suspicious. Neal was working for the good guys now, but he was still Neal. He might genuinely want to go to pay his respects to somebody, or it might be a con.

"Who died, and why do I care?" Peter asked, tossing his pen down and rubbing his eyes.

Neal answered him directly. "Alice Brunner. She was 89. Went in her sleep on Friday night."

Peter stared at him. For the most part, crime was a young person's game. What connection could Neal possibly have with such an elderly woman?

"She related to you?"

"No."

Okay, that was one mystery solved. Peter pressed his informant. "She a former mark?"

Neal's eyes flashed, but his voice was calm. "No."

"Former partner?"

"No." Neal was annoyed. It had been a very long day, he was fed up with paperwork, and suddenly it occurred to him that he had his answer. No. Peter wasn't going to take him. Peter was just going to lean back in that comfy office chair, insult him, and interrogate him like a common criminal. About _Alice_. That stung. But he was a professional, so he shook it off. "You know what, Peter, don't worry about it," he said evenly. "Maybe someone else will be free. See you tomorrow."

Peter watched Neal walk quickly down the stairs and into the bullpen. The younger man grabbed his coat and hat almost without breaking stride and slipped out through the glass doors. He knew Neal was just cranky from dealing with mortgage fraud stuff all day, and he'd poked him a little harder than necessary, but now he had all the information he needed. He swiveled his chair around to face his computer screen and started typing. First, he typed in the name "Alice Brunner." There were sixteen listings, but when he co-referenced the death date, only one remained, and the file was full of articles. He sat there reading for two hours.

The information painted a picture of a reasonably ordinary, well-lived life. Alice Mary Brunner, maiden name Herstwick, born June 8, 1921 in London, England, immigrated to the United States in 1930 with her family, graduated from Forest Hills high school in New York City in 1939, married Joseph Brunner in 1943, and had two children after the war. She worked as an English teacher in the New York City public schools from 1957 to 1997, and retired hip-deep in commendations.

Then she started volunteering. From early 1998 to 2003, she was on the books as serving in various advisory and teaching positions in TNNA and TKGA. And then, in January of 2004, she founded a small local group of twenty-four needlecraft enthusiasts called Pearl (a pun on "purl," he assumed), with an audacious mission: to create and provide needlecraft classes for prisoners throughout the state of New York. Alice herself gave classes from 2004 until 2008, when an article in a local knitting magazine lamented the fact that rheumatoid arthritis had finally caught up with her and prevented her from going back to…

Peter stared at the name of the prison. He read the article through several times to make sure he wasn't seeing things, and just to double check, he called the facility and asked a clerk about Alice Brunner. The clerk confirmed that she had given classes, and he even had a roll sheet of inmates who'd participated. The list of names was pretty short. He read it off, and when he finished, Peter thanked him absently and hung up.

For a moment he sat back in his chair and blinked at the ceiling, speechless at the implication.

He'd just found Neal's knitting teacher.

* * *

The next morning, Neal walked into Peter's office ready to discuss a case. The colorful bruise on his cheek took the conversation in a different direction.

"Whoa, sit down," Peter said. "What the heck happened to you?"

Neal sighed and plopped down into the visitor's chair. A lie would do, but the truth would out sooner or later. Besides, it was so ridiculous that if nothing else it was good for a laugh.

"I went to Yarn n' Stuff after work yesterday to cool off after … well, whatever. Thought it would clear my head."

Peter barely stopped his wince. He'd really been an ass, but he'd apologize later. This was too pressing to ignore. "Who hit you?"

"Some jerk. Tight leather pants and a Mohawk, black nail polish, black macramé jacket he made himself, couldn't use his 'inside' voice, acted like he owned the place… You know the type, I'm sure."

"Yeah, brace yourself," Peter deadpanned, "I don't."

Neal ignored that. "We both grabbed the same ball of yarn out of a bin. I had it first, but he wouldn't let go, and things got ugly." He shrugged. "Security threw him out."

"You hit him back?"

Neal shook his head. "I threw a punch, but I missed." His voice sank to a mutter as he probed his tender cheek. "Slippery bastard."

"Did he knock you down?"

"I may have stumbled back a pace."

Peter stared in dismay. "I see." Neal had gotten popped in the face by a crazy knitter at a yarn store. This was officially a new low. "Okay, next question. And this is important, so think hard." He leaned forward on his desk, laced his fingers and looked at Neal intently, like he was taking a witness statement. "Mr. Caffrey, on a scale of one to ten, how gay was your assailant?"

"Well, he hit me with his shopping bag after he punched me," Neal said with some irritation, "So I'd say 'bout a twelve."

Peter let the wince out. "Jesus. Neal, that's pathetic. Do you need self defense classes, or something?"

Neal gaze was like ice as he rapped his fingers on his knee.

"Okay, let's back up. Do you know what self defense _is_."

"One more crack and I'll knit you a scarf and gloves to match that stupid hat."

"All right, all right, calm down." Peter sighed. "You get the yarn, at least?"

Neal was incredulous. "Of course I got the yarn. Security was on my side about it, and a lot of other people saw what happened and backed me up. They all kept asking me if I was okay, so that was kind of embarrassing, but otherwise… Well, it doesn't matter. I'm not going back to that store. I don't want to run into that guy again."

"Oh, what, you're homophobic, now?" Peter teased.

"I am _not_ homophobic. I'm homo-punch-o-face-o-phobic. There's a difference."

Just then, Jones knocked on the door and leaned in. "Peter? Hughes wants you in his office."

Peter stood and motioned for Neal to stay where he was. "We have some things to discuss. Stay put and I'll be back."

When Peter returned fifteen minutes later, he stopped outside his glass wall and frowned in annoyance. His consultant had stayed put as directed, but was amusing himself by juggling Peter's rubber band ball and little apple, along with a tennis ball that he'd scrounged up. Just to see what would happen, and possibly to teach Neal a lesson about touching other people's toys without their permission, Peter crept in silently and slammed the door behind him. Neal spazzed. He jumped half a foot in his chair and shielded his head as the small items rained down on him.

"Oh, sorry, did I startle you?" Peter said, waltzing in. "Put my things back. Now."

Neal glared at him but dutifully started picking up what had fallen. The rubber band ball had rolled halfway across the room, the tennis ball had landed in the potted plant in the corner, and the little apple had bounced off his head and rolled under Peter's desk somewhere. As he hunted for it on hands and knees he cleared his throat; his heart was still racing. "You said we needed to talk?"

"Yes. We do." Peter sat down on his side of the desk and waited until Neal had set the rubber band ball and apple back in place, seated himself properly and folded his hands in his lap. "I did some research last night."

Neal's expression didn't change, but he swallowed silently and Peter saw his hands tighten.

"I understand why you want to go to the memorial service tomorrow." He licked his lips, deliberately drawing it out. "I can't guarantee that either of us will be free, but if there's nothing pressing, I'll go with you."

Neal sat up straighter. "Really?"

Peter nodded slowly. "Yeah. But I'm warning you, if I regret this for any reason…"

"You won't. Thanks, Peter."

"Don't thank me yet," Peter said. "We might get a case tomorrow. You should go get some work done."

It took Neal a moment to understand he was being dismissed. He left with a light step.

* * *

Wednesday ended with no new case, so Neal and Peter both had the evening clear. The memorial service was set to begin at 8. Peter had offered to swing by June's place and pick Neal up at 7:15, and the Taurus pulled up in front of the mansion right on time. The sun had set hours ago, so the light in the foyer cast stark silhouettes before the door opened. Neal stepped out with a wave goodbye to June and quickly closed the door behind him to keep out the cold. He tightened the collar of his long coat, adjusted the brim of his hat against the cutting night air, and walked down the steps to the curb. Without looking, he tried the door handle on the front passenger door of the Taurus. Nothing happened. Neal rolled his eyes.

"Peter, the door's locked."

The window lowered, revealing a very familiar someone with long dark hair and pretty blue eyes in his usual seat. Elizabeth smiled at him. "Sorry, I called shotgun. You'll have to sit in the back." And the window rolled up.

Neal blinked, but it was cold, so he didn't argue. He opened the right rear door, slid into the backseat, and pulled the door closed after him. The heat was on in the car; he gratefully removed his hat and fastened his seat belt.

"Ready back there?" Peter said from the driver's seat.

"Yep."

The car pulled away from the curb and they eased out into traffic.

"So, Elizabeth … uh …" Neal trailed off.

"Peter and I went to dinner, and he told me about this and said he was picking you up. I figured I'd tag along. I hope that's okay."

"Sure, it's okay," Neal said. He was touched that she wanted to come. "Hey, Peter, you called the Marshals, right?"

"Yeah, I let 'em know. But if your light starts blinking, speak up. I don't want this to turn into a situation."

"Okay." They drove in silence for a bit. Finally, Neal said, "Where'd you guys go for dinner?"

"Oh, Peter took me to this wonderful restaurant in Chinatown," Elizabeth said. "Mei Shi Lin. The dumplings were amazing. They had some interesting wines too, but I didn't get anything. Ever since Del Posto, I'm a bit spoiled."

Neal smiled. "You two enjoy your anniversary dinner?"

Elizabeth nodded, and then giggled. "Well, Peter was a little surprised at the end of the night, but yes."

"Yeah, you failed to mention that I'd be paying for it, Caffrey," Peter groused, as though just remembering to be mad at Neal.

"Hey, I got you reservations," Neal protested. "I did my part."

"You said it was taken care of."

"The _reservations_ were taken care of. Besides, even if I'd figured out a way to comp you two, what would that prove? It was supposed to be your anniversary gift to your wife."

"That's what I explained to him," Elizabeth said, shaking her head and giggling again. "Oh, Neal, you should have seen his face when he saw the bill. He pouted."

"Elle!"

* * *

They hit 74th street, and then it was a bit of a guessing game to find the right block in the dark, but they parked reasonably close and got to the church with time to spare. Light was spilling out of the front doors as they mingled with a smallish crowd entering the main sanctuary. An organist was halfway through a cheerful Bach prelude.

Hat in hand, Neal walked up the center aisle with the Burkes and looked all around him as the organist continued to play. The white walls of the nave were punctuated with high windows and the low sloped ceiling was divided by dramatic dark wood hammer beams. The stark contrast of the white and the dark brown was intensified by the red and gold color scheme of the flower arrangements. Large pots of sunflowers, chrysanthemums, irises and maple leaves dotted the steps leading up to the altar area. A lectern had been set up at the top of the steps, flanked by pictures on sturdy easels. On the left was a black-and-white photograph of a smiling young woman in a spectacular hat. On the right was an equally large color picture of a wrinkled old woman in a blue cardigan sweater, work glasses dangling from her neck on a chain, hair completely white and cut very short, and still smiling.

The first eight pews were beginning to fill; he felt a tug on his sleeve. Elizabeth was encouraging him to sit down in the third pew from the front, next to her and Peter. He sat down in the aisle seat and began to unbutton his coat. The organist finished the prelude and began the fugue, joined by a quiet rush of heat through the vents.

"What kind of church is this?" Peter asked Elizabeth.

"Episcopalian, I think," she answered.

"Yeah, Alice used to joke that she was 'Catholic Lite,'" Neal said, shrugging himself free of his coat. Beneath it he wore a gray wool suit with a pale blue pocket square.

"She wasn't much for religion?" Peter asked.

Neal smiled and shook his head. "She'd probably get a kick out of the service being here. She'd think it was funny."

Elizabeth was furrowing her brow. She tapped Neal's chest. "What's that? You've got something on your pocket square." Embroidered along the edge of the square were four silver letters: N D T B.

"What? Oh, it's for Alice," Neal said. He didn't elaborate.

Elizabeth let it go. "Did you see a program anywhere?"

"No. I think this is going to be pretty laid back. Speeches, music, that sort of thing."

The three of them sat there quietly amidst the chatter of the arriving guests and listened to the organist finish up. As the fugue ended, the doors to the sanctuary closed. Neal looked around. It wasn't a bad turnout. A slender, angular woman dressed in a sparkly black dress and low heels made her way up to the podium from the first pew. She adjusted the microphone, tucked a stray bit of slate gray hair behind her left ear, and laid out a few sheets of paper to speak from.

"Hello everybody," she said, and gave the crowd a warm smile. "Thank you for coming. Ladies and gentlemen, we are here to honor my mother, Mrs. Alice Brunner. My name is Lydia Hammond, and this is my brother, Martin Brunner. Stand up, Marty!" A balding man stood in the front row and nodded pleasantly at the crowd. "We're going to lead this celebration of life. And yes, I'm sure you all know that our mother wasn't very religious, so you're probably wondering why we're holding it at a church. Well, the fact is, we're halfway decent Episcopalians when we put our minds to it, and ma really liked the windows in this place, so here we are." She shrugged. The audience was laughing. "In any case, this is going to be fairly informal. Marty and I will talk a little, I believe the priest here wants to offer a prayer, we'll have a nice eulogy, and Genie's going to play something for us, right, Genie?" The elderly organist nodded from her seat on the wooden bench. "And then we'd like to have some memories from anybody who wishes to speak. Around ten o'clock we'll gather in the basement and raise a final toast, there will be treats, and … well, I suppose we'll just party 'til they throw us out."

"You should say something when they open the floor," Elizabeth whispered in Neal's ear as the audience laughed and applauded. "You knew her."

"Yeah, I don't know, maybe," Neal said quietly. He avoided her eyes by looking around at the other guests in nearby pews.

Something made him smile just then, but Elizabeth didn't see that. She was looking to her husband for help. Peter just shrugged.

Lydia opened the service with a loving take on her mother's life story. Martin shared memories of a happy home life growing up and credited his mother with a lot of his success. Both of the Brunner children roundly praised her volunteer work and her mighty skills as a needlecraft artisan and a fine teacher. The priest offered a prayer of peace, and it was time for the eulogy. A tiny old lady, wrapped in a modest white dress and fake fur cape, gripped a walker with gnarled, bejeweled fingers and reached the podium with a lot of assistance from her twenty-something grandson, only to discover she was not actually tall enough to use it. There were cheers as Martin rushed up to the front with an extra chair, and she carefully took her seat next to the lectern, held the microphone close to her mouth, and introduced herself as Emma Grant, the vice president of Pearl. She was also, she added in a quavering, wobbly voice, "Alice Brunner's BFF." The eulogy was brief, funny, and heartfelt. Genie played some more Bach. And at nine o'clock, Lydia opened the floor.

Four people got up from their pews and carefully stepped over other people's legs to get to the aisle. Neal watched them file by and was surprised when he felt someone squeeze his left hand. Elizabeth looked at him, then at the podium, then back at him. And Neal realized it was sort of silly to just come and not say anything, so he got up and followed the last man. Elizabeth smiled and nudged Peter. Peter shook his head; Neal plus microphone plus crowd of people equaled Not Good, but Elizabeth rubbed his shoulders and plastered on an encouraging smile for Neal, who was shuffling uncomfortably at the bottom of the stairs.

The four speakers before Neal were highly respectable, elderly gentlemen who fumferred their way through their speeches and said the sort of mundane, wince-worthy crap that people tend to spout at funerals either on purpose or by accident. The last one was the principal of the high school where Alice had taught for much of her career. His speech was particularly egregious because it was terribly impersonal. It was clear that he'd felt compelled to speak, but he hadn't really known Alice at all. Then Neal took the podium. He looked out over the small sea of people and smiled. Several elderly women smiled back at him.

"Hi," he said. "My name is Neal Caffrey, and I knit." He took a breath. "Alice is the reason I know how. And I wanted to get up here and say something, because I didn't meet Alice the way most of you did. Visual art has always been my business, and for a long time I was in 'sales and acquisitions,' you might say. I also specialized in, um," he paused and decided on a good euphemism. "… reproductions."

Peter snorted loudly and Elizabeth smacked him on the arm.

"Unfortunately, my activities weren't exactly legal, and long story short, I ended up in prison. Supermax. And don't worry, they didn't throw me in there because I was some violent head case. I was just a flight risk. They thought I might escape." A few of the people in the audience looked shocked. Neal's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Actually, I _did_ escape, but that's a story for another day. Anyway, when I was in prison, I met Alice. She'd been doing these knitting classes for a year before I arrived, and I joined. I'll be honest; I had no interest in knitting. But it was human interaction, and something to do, so I went. We started out with a class of ten people and we met twice a week for two hours. We were on one side of a Plexiglass wall and she was on the other."

Neal smiled and laughed a little at the memory. "The first time I took the class, the guards had us up close to the divider so we could see what she was doing, but we were handcuffed and belly chained to our chairs. It was next to impossible to get anything done. But pretty soon they figured out who was staying and who was leaving, and Alice convinced them that the maximum security inmates who were staying should be unchained, with access to sharp objects, and balls of yarn. I have no idea how she managed this, but she did it.

And she was fearless. When we first started the class, there was this one guy who really shouldn't have been there. He had a low IQ and brain damage from drug abuse ... really mentally unstable. He lost it about halfway through our second session and started shouting profanity at Alice. There was no physical danger to her, because she was safe on the other side of the glass, but it was pretty amazing. You know, here was this totally unhinged mountain of a guy, yelling at this sweet little old lady who was maybe five feet tall, and she was just standing there with her arms crossed, waiting for him to finish. And the rest of us are watching, like, what is she going to do? Is she going to call security? Is she going to break down and cry? Is this fool going to ruin it for the rest of us?

Nope. Alice just let him scream himself hoarse, and while he was huffing and puffing she said to him, very calmly, in this amazing accent, because, you know, Alice grew up in England, and then she mixed her own speech patterns with what she heard here in New York…" Lots of people were bobbing their heads, very much into the story. "Anyway, she looked up at him and she said, 'I taught English for forty years in the public schools. You, sir, do not scare me.' And the guards took him away."

Neal waited for the laughter to die down. "The rest of us knew right then that we really had something special. But the remarkable thing about Alice wasn't just that she kept showing up and teaching, or bringing us yarn and needles and stuff. She treated us like we were ordinary guys. She knew our names; our _real_ names, not just our nicknames on the inside. We would scoot our chairs as close to the divider as we could, and we would knit, and we would talk about … well, it was amazing what she got us to talk about. For four hours a week, we weren't numbers, or orange jumpsuits. We were people. Alice made her class a very positive place. We had this mantra that we all repeated once at the beginning of each session. It was, 'No mountain…' no, wait, that's not it."

"No task," came a deep voice across the aisle from Peter and Elizabeth. Peter leaned across his wife and saw a well-dressed, large black man with a shaved head sitting comfortably in the pew with his hands laced across his expansive belly. He had a feeling that when this guy stood up he'd be well over six feet tall.

Neal smiled at him. "No task. Thanks, J.T. 'No task too hard, no road too long, no dream too big.' She wanted us to make the best of our lives after release. We took that last phrase for our motto. No dream too big. N D T B. Well, I'm proud to say that I got out, and now I work in law enforcement."

"That's a kind way of putting it," Peter said in Elizabeth's ear. She shushed him.

"And J.T., what are you doing these days?" Neal asked.

"I run a sporting goods store," the man said proudly.

Neal nodded. "J.T. and I stuck with Alice up through her last day. The arthritis was getting bad, and she showed up in a wheelchair. At the end of the session, we knew the classes were over, so we thanked her up and down and said goodbye. And I'll just lie right now and say that the two of us were incredibly stoic and strong about the whole thing, and nobody cried.

That was the last time I saw her. But I want to acknowledge publicly what she did for me and so many others. She was a great woman who never stopped teaching, and I'm very proud that I knew her. So, Alice, rest in peace. You've earned it. J.T., you have anything to add?"

"Nah, man, you good. That was just right," J.T. said.

The audience agreed. Neal got more applause than the other four speakers put together.

* * *

Down in the church basement, champagne corks popped, everyone raised their glasses in a lively toast, and the memorial service degenerated into a noisy party, full of laughter and loud conversations. Peter wandered through the crowd, picking away at an excellent slice of coffee cake on a paper plate while keeping an eye on Neal. He watched as Lydia dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes, hugged him tight and said, "Oh, you have to know, ma always talked about you! I'm so glad you were able to come." Neal took the opportunity to introduce Peter as his 'supervisor at the FBI.' Peter smiled at Lydia and went with it. He watched as Neal skillfully placated Alice's high school administrator, who felt upstaged, and then he allowed Neal to pull him over to the corner closest to the buffet to properly meet J.T.. Neal's knitting classmate towered over both of them. Peter's hand was lost in the other guy's paw, but the handshake was gentle.

Neal and J.T. immediately began catching up, cracking jokes, exchanging news about their current circumstances and ongoing projects, and talking smack about crochet.

"I tried to learn it when I got out." J.T. shook his head slowly. "Man, you wanna talk about the second biggest mistake I ever made."

Neal smirked, and Peter glanced at J.T. suspiciously. "What was the first?"

The ex-convicts turned to him and said, in unison, "Getting caught."

Neal looked to his friend again. "So, what happened?"

"Aw, it was crazy. I'd been out two months, and I was like, you know, just doin' a chain stitch. I wanted to maybe throw somethin' a little more interesting. And Mike – you remember Mike? – he's like, this lady, Betsy somebody, she's a genius. She'll hook you up. But this woman, damn, you wanna talk about a crazy…" He managed to hold in the last word, but it took some doing. "Neal, this is my advice for you. Stay a_way_, from the cro_chet_. She went so fast…" He made a disgusted noise. "Man, just talkin' bout it makes me angry. It was impossible. I couldn't follow her for shit. I was like, well here I am, doin' my little chain stitch, mindin' my own damn business, single crochet, la dee dah, and she all like…" J.T. started gesturing wildly. "Well, I'm doing a half-caff, double-loop, triple axel, _fuck you_ crochet, how 'bout that! Yeah, fuck you, asshole, you ain't _never_ gonna learn this."

Neal was gone before J.T. even finished, laughing so hard that he started coughing. Peter pounded him on the back.

* * *

An hour later, the party was winding down. Neal said goodnight to Lydia and J.T. and left with Peter and Elizabeth. The wind was blowing fiercely outside as they climbed into the car. Peter cranked up the heat for the return trip to June's house and Neal spent the quiet ride slumped in the back, spent from the experience. The Burkes were silent up front.

Only when they were within a block of the mansion did Peter speak, looking at Neal through the rear-view mirror. "That was a nice speech," he said. "I'm proud of you for getting up there."

Neal smiled faintly. "Thanks."

"And Neal, we'll see you tomorrow, right?" Elizabeth asked.

Neal was confused. "For what?"

"Thanksgiving dinner, silly!" she said, turning to look at him. "I told Peter to invite you last week."

Peter had done no such thing, but Neal covered for him anyway. "Oh, right! He mentioned it. Yes, I'd love to come. What time's dinner?"

"I'll have appetizers out at 5:30, but I think I'll need some help in the kitchen."

"I can be there at 3. Should I bring wine?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Just bring yourself and an apron."

The car stopped. Neal nodded. "Done. See you tomorrow."

"Okay, you have a good night."

"Yeah, 'night, Neal," Peter added.

"Night, guys. And thanks for 'supervising,' Peter. I appreciate it."

"No problem."

Neal let himself out of the car and trotted up the steps. He expected the Burkes to peel out right away, but the Taurus didn't move until he got the front door open and stepped inside.

– END –


	4. Respect the Pom

**Continuity:** Post **Point Blank**, but no actual references to the episode.

**References:** Mr. Hoffmeister from **Bad Judgment** (season 1) makes an appearance.

* * *

**RESPECT THE POM**

_December 19, 2010_

At seven in the evening, a shady art collector (Neal) and his equally shady business associate (Peter) were shivering in a Hoboken warehouse, brokering a deal with some mobsters. Everybody was bundled up to the eyes, for all the good it did. Jones and Diana, stationed in the van, and Hughes, listening from another coordination point, could hear teeth chattering over the wires. Hughes was nervous about this particular operation. Even though Burke had told him they had this covered, the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling; every instinct was screaming that they were one false move away from catastrophe. He hated putting his people in harm's way, especially with surveillance and tactical support forced to hang back so far, but it was necessary due to the layout of the warehouse district. With his usual cool façade in place, he slipped one hand into his pants pocket and started palming the miniature brass engine. Other agents squeezed stress balls; he played with trains. Collecting them had been a passion of his since childhood.

Hughes listened as the recorded conversation came around to business. Theoretically, Neal was supposed to exchange an electronic bundle of money, conveniently flagged by the FBI, for a priceless Ming vase, but there was one big potential problem: the wide gulf between theory and practice. In the end, it proved too far to cross.

Issue number one: Peter's team had been baiting the target with several interesting tricks, all Neal's ideas, to make him feel like the full weight of the FBI was closing in on him and help convince him that the wisest thing to do would be to get rid of a very hot potato, which would get them the vase that much faster. This left the mobster feeling uncomfortable and a little twitchy, which is not the way anyone should feel when carrying a loaded weapon.

Issue number two: Peter got a minor detail wrong when quizzed about the money situation. It was an innocent mistake, he rallied immediately, and if the mobster had been feeling less nervous, it would have been fine. Instead, their target jumped on the screw-up and started waving his gun around while screaming that Peter was an FBI mole.

Negotiations went south pretty fast after that. Things ended with Peter on his knees, nose bloodied, face bruised, with a .38 pressed to his temple. Neal got in the middle of the fight as fast as he could, and in a move that he'd learned from Mozzie, he ripped the gun straight out of the hand that was holding it to Peter's face and coldly dared the attacker to try something stupid. The goon backed off. Neal motioned for everyone else to join him. He planted himself protectively in front of Peter, faced down the six large thugs and their boss, and held the gun on them.

"Jim is my business guy," Neal said coolly. "He's been working for me for six years. He's not a Fed, and that was completely uncalled-for, especially since I just transferred the funds to your account. I'm taking my vase, and we're leaving," he finished. By which he meant: _If there are any Federales in the area, now would be the time to get the hell in here and arrest these guys before they decide to kill us. Thank you._ "Besides, if Jim was an FBI mole, they'd be swarming already." _And, cue the battering ram._

Nothing happened.

What Neal didn't know was that five minutes ago, most of the back-up in the area had been suddenly pulled away for another operation, leaving Hughes scrambling to provide assistance and Diana and Jones preparing to go in on their own. The surveillance van was parked six blocks away.

They wouldn't be there for another ten minutes.

A lot could happen in ten minutes.

Neal's first instinct was to stall, so he started talking. "Look, can we just settle this like rational human beings? You don't want to kill us. You're obviously on somebody's radar. You kill me, or him, and it'll just bring more heat. Take off with your money, leave the vase, and we'll call it even."

"Oh, we'll call it even, all right," said the mobster. He wiggled his Blackberry at Neal. "I appreciate your money, pretty boy, but I gotta make sure you idiots don't think you can cross me. Boys? Show him what we do to people who mess with us. But, you know, don't kill him."

The goons grinned at Neal. A few of them started wrapping leather straps around their knuckles. Neal tightened his jaw and to Peter's woozy surprise, he stood his ground and got ready to fight, stuffing the gun into the back of his pants, fiddling his left foot so his stance was shoulder-width, and bringing up his fists.

Facts flitted through Peter's confused brain: Neal's aversion to violence. Neal's dislike of guns. Neal getting punched in the face by an Adam Lambert wannabe last month in a yarn store. Neal failing to hit the guy back. This was the same person who was now preparing to fight off a small army. Peter closed his eyes and bowed his head. _Jesus Christ,_ he thought. _We're gonna die._

Neal spoke to Peter without turning, keeping his eyes on the advancing pack of goons.

"Hang in there, man. I got this."

* * *

_December 20, 2010_

The sun had been down for about half an hour when Jones and Diana finally made it to the Midtown General second floor Trauma ward. Neal had been set up in one of the curtained areas, and Elizabeth opened the flap to let them in. She and Peter had been hanging out with him since four o'clock. Peter was stationed in a chair at the bedside, dressed in a warm fleece pullover and jeans, a small flannel blanket draped over his lap and that morning's crossword in his hand. He looked tired and worked over, but considerably better than Neal, whose major achievements today had included consciousness, lucidity, and keeping down some hospital food.

Diana immediately went over to the bed and leaned down to get a look. Elizabeth was gently laying an ice pack over Neal's right eye. He hissed slightly at the sting and the cold.

"Sorry, Neal," she murmured. "Oh, Diana, he's shivering again. Would you pass me that extra blanket?" She shook her head in despair. "I can't believe what those animals did to his face."

"Elle, it's a shiner, not the end of the world. Besides, he's got bigger problems."

Elizabeth thought about arguing but sadly, Peter was right. The ER doctor's thoroughly unprofessional words had been, verbatim, "This guy got his ass handed to him."

Sitting here now, Peter was still trying to figure out whether to be mad at Neal for taking on half a football team of goombas, or to be grateful for his consultant's unexpected heroism and willingness to protect somebody else at great personal cost. At the moment, he was leaning towards option B. Neal had been through the wringer; he didn't need anyone jumping down his throat right now. Also, Elizabeth was in the room, so A, while satisfying, could potentially get ugly.

"Ugly" could describe Neal pretty well, too. A black eye, a cut lip, and two slightly cracked ribs from the melee. A messed up left shoulder. A sprained right ankle. A goose egg on his head and a minor concussion to accompany it. Bumps, bruises, and scrapes all over the place. And to top it off, a few hours after being admitted, the nurses noticed his face was a little hot. Now his nose wouldn't stop running and he was constantly chilly. Getting the sniffles was nothing compared to everything else, but Peter worried anyway.

The shoulder was intentional. At some point during the smackdown, one of the goons had gotten him with a two-by-four right across the deltoid muscle. While it barely even counted as a partial dislocation, the bruise was big and nasty, and some small blood vessel had sprung a leak somewhere in there. So the ER staff drained half a pint from around the joint, and there had been dire conversations about internal bleeding and trauma surgery until they realized that the leak had stopped on its own, and Neal was stabilizing. The shoulder was bandaged and his arm was in a sling.

The ankle was an accident. When Neal realized what the thugs were planning to do to him, his first idea was to run. It worked for about four minutes. Once he had his enemies' complete attention, he allowed them to chase him all over the warehouse to buy time for the cavalry to arrive. But on one final diversionary pass, he slipped on a frozen puddle halfway across the building and went down wrong. The adrenaline rush dulled any pain, and he got back up and fought like a demon without even realizing what he'd done to himself. It wasn't a terrible sprain, but he'd be off his feet for a few days and on crutches for at least a week.

"Lizb'th, it's okay," Neal protested. Elizabeth was bunching the covers around his hips and ignoring him. "'m fine."

Elizabeth shushed him, Diana started tucking the blankets on his other side, and Jones and Peter smirked. Neal finally realized resistance was futile and silently let the women have their way.

"Hey, Neal," Jones said.

Neal tracked his eyes over to the agent. "Hey, Jones," he rasped. "Glad you guys are here. Glad you guys were _there_, too. Nick of time."

"I'm just sorry we didn't get there sooner," Jones said. He shared a look with Diana, who was getting the blankets around Neal's left foot. She nodded. Jones unzipped his puffy jacket, carefully removed something, and held it up so Neal could see. "We, um, we made you something at the office. We didn't know how long you'd be here, so…"

Neal approved. "Found object art. Nice."

It was a thoughtful gift. Five glossy paper irises (folded New Yorker pages) were attached to wire stems (unbent jumbo paperclips) and sat nestled in a vase made from a jelly jar, rescued from the break area in the bullpen.

"Diana made most of them," Jones said, "But I made one, too."

It was pretty easy to tell who had made what. Diana's irises were crisp and perfect, and Jones' contribution looked as though he'd sat on it. But the man had tried, God bless him, so Neal smiled indulgently.

"They're beautiful. Thanks. Whose idea was the jelly jar?"

"Mine," Jones said. He set the little jar down on the rolling bedside table. "I cleaned it out."

"Yeah, with his tongue," Diana jabbed playfully.

"What? Strawberry's the best jam in the world. Anyway, I washed it, so you won't get my cooties, don't worry."

Neal sniffed hard to try and clear out his nose. "Well, that's good, 'cuz I got enough cooties of my own."

"Yeah, so we heard. Oh, Hughes says hey, and good job. He wanted to come with us, but he's stuck at the office."

"What's he doing?" Peter asked.

"Trying to figure out who jacked our back-up," Diana explained. Then she smiled. "And then he'll have to figure out a good punishment when he finds out who did it."

"Peter, how are you doing?" Jones asked. "You survive your 'observation' period okay?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Peter said. Then he yawned. "I'm sorry. I didn't get a wink of sleep all night. You know what it's like in the hospital. Thank God they let me go at noon; I was ready to make a run for it."

"Well, at least you had a nap at home," Elizabeth said. She was getting ready to tuck the blankets around Neal's right foot, which was strapped up in bandages and propped on a pillow.

"Hey, 'Lizbeth?" Neal said.

"Yes?"

"Could you do me a favor and scratch my foot? I can't reach."

Elizabeth smiled. "Sure. Where?"

"Between the big toe and the next one."

Elizabeth scratched the itch gently and Neal moaned in relief. "Thanks."

Just as Elizabeth got the blankets over his bandaged foot, an Asian gentleman with a stethoscope around his neck walked in through the curtains and picked up Neal's chart from the plastic holder on the bed. "Hi, everybody."

"Hi, Dr. Yuen," Peter said. He turned to Jones and Diana. "This guy's in charge of Neal's case."

"Ah, Mr. Caffrey, you're awake," said the doctor, leaning over Neal. "Wonderful. Are you in pain?"

"A little," Neal admitted.

"All right, I'll put in an order for something a bit stronger. In the meantime, I have some very good news for you. We're releasing you in three hours."

Peter looked at Neal, who was quite a sight, and then turned to the doctor. "You're releasing him," he said flatly. "To what, a mortuary?"

"Hey, 'Lizbeth, do me a favor an' kick Peter."

"Um, it does seem a little premature," Diana pointed out.

"I understand your concern," the doctor said, "And I know his injuries aren't pretty, but believe it or not, he's going to be fine, and there's nothing more we can do for him. The concussion is minor. He's stable and recovering. We treated his shoulder. He moved it around a little this morning, so he can continue physical therapy at home. Sprained ankle? Splinted. Ribs? Nothing we can do, unfortunately. Cuts? Sterilized and bandaged. Bruises? They'll go away. And for the grand finale, I ran some blood work. Mr. Caffrey has an infection, which we have identified as the human rhinovirus. It's the common cold. There's no cure."

Peter groaned.

"If Mr. Caffrey stays here, that'll just provide opportunities for more serious infections to get him, so I figure he shouldn't be around sick people any longer than necessary. We're discharging him at 8 o'clock, and we can arrange transport. Anyone riding along?"

Peter looked around at everybody. Elizabeth and Jones nodded, but Diana shook her head.

"Diana, you can't come?" Elizabeth asked.

"I promised Christie I'd go to her basketball game tonight. It starts at seven. I mean, if you need a fourth person then I can call her…"

"No, no," Neal said. "Go cheer her on."

Diana looked dubious. "You're sure? I mean, it's just amateur ball, and there'll be other games."

Peter shook his head 'no.' "You can't disappoint the spouse. Trust me on this." Elizabeth smiled.

Neal asked, "What's her team called?"

"The Sharks."

"Nice."

The doctor cleared his throat and clicked his pen. "Sorry to interrupt, but where will Mr. Caffrey be going?"

* * *

"Oh, yes dear, of course we'll make it work. It's no trouble. And I'll see you all for dinner on Christmas Day, right? … Yes. Please, tell Diana to bring Christie. Everyone is welcome. All right, yes, goodbye." June hung up with Elizabeth and turned to Mozzie, who was sitting at Neal's kitchen table, finishing his pasta dinner. "Chop chop, Mr. Haversham. We've been mobilized."

Mozzie wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin and raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"Moving things downstairs," June said. "Neal will be here by 8:30, and I want him close in case he needs my help, so he'll need to be in a room on the first floor."

"But the Suit said –" A glare from June had him rethinking his word choice. "I mean, but _Peter_ said, Neal wouldn't be out of the hospital until at least tomorrow."

June was already bustling to the bed. She threw her hands up. "Well, they've moved everything up, haven't they? But it's certainly good news. Less time in the hospital is always better. Now, what shall we bring down for him?"

Mozzie got up to join her. "He'll definitely need the comforter and pillows, at least." He started stripping the bed and gathering things up.

"I'll get his drawing things," June added, and found a small tackle box full of pencils. Nearby was a nearly empty sketch pad.

Mozzie, almost buried under the bedding, gingerly walked down the stairs with June at his side. When they were halfway down he commented, "So, I'll stick around to make sure he gets into bed okay, and then I think I'll get out of town for a few days. It's my Christmas tradition."

"Wait, I'll see you on Christmas for the dinner, won't I? … Mozzie?"

Mozzie shuffled a little. "I … I don't know. You know, I have plans. … Big plans."

June wasn't fooled for a second. "Mozzie, I want you to be here. Promise me."

Mozzie turned and looked at her, and finally figured out that the jig was up, and the offer was sincere. His answer was quiet. "Okay."

* * *

"I can' believe you," Neal groused at Peter. "A mortuary? That was mean."

"Well, you _do_ look like death warmed over," Peter explained. "And I can't believe they're just tossing you out on your butt with a couple of prescriptions. You'd think that damn health care bill would have some effect on the system by now."

"Stop defracting," Neal argued. He was getting dizzy from the IV injection a nurse had just given him, and he blinked. "Reflecting." Another blink. "Refracting? … _De_flecting. 'ere it is. Deflecting. Stop that."

Peter rolled his eyes. "The good stuff is kickin' in there, hey, Mr. Hero?"

Neal looked sort of absently disgusted. "I saved your life, man," he said. The small crowd was silent while he gave this some thought. Then he continued, slowly and deliberately, "I literally … physically … got in there and saved your freakin' life." He started to smile. Peter's lips were a thin line. "Put on the damn hat."

"It's at home," Peter said.

"No it's not," Elizabeth said, and she held up something fuzzy and brown. "I had a feeling, so I packed it."

Peter's eyes went wide.

Diana laughed and turned to Jones, who had all the information from both sides, and had told her everything. "Oh my God, is that The Hat? The one Neal threatened to knit him in the van? The one that Peter made the deal for?"

Jones nodded. "Yup. Peter, you should put that on. It's only right."

Peter was blushing in embarrassment. With a warning glare at his subordinates to refrain from commenting, he held out his hand for the hat and stuffed it on his head. It was a beautiful hand knit cap done in a rich brown, with a flat box top. Layers of white and golden streaks had been overstitched seemingly at random, starting on top of the hat and trailing down, and there was a knitted white cube on the top, right in the center. The cap had earflaps which dripped down into foot-long chains, each ending in a large fluffy white pom-pom. But the seven rings of gentle elastic inside the hat were what really made it work. They cinched the knitted fabric into layers of circles. It was artistic, lovingly made, and had required a lot of effort and skill.

It also looked like Peter was wearing a stack of pancakes for a hat. A pat of white butter was melting on top, and the butter (the white yarn) and maple syrup (the golden yarn) were dripping down the sides.

Diana and Jones held it together for about three seconds before bursting into laughter. Elizabeth beamed.

Neal was very proud of how Peter looked. "Yaaaay. Awesome. … I can't move ma' arms. Somebody applaud."

Jones actually looked ready to try, but a withering glare from Peter stopped him.

Diana was struggling to compose herself. "Boss, I know you hate it, but it really looks good on ya. Fits perfectly and it's a great color. I even like those stupid pom-poms."

"Hey, respect the pom, a'right?" Neal said. "Those damn things take forever to make. First you gotta wrap, and then you gotta tie, and then you gotta cut, an' if you want a fluffy one, good luck. You'll be there for two hours with a hair brush smackin' the thing back and forth to get it fuzzy."

"Oh, Neal, I didn't mean to insult you," Diana said, patting his good shoulder. "I know you worked very hard. And I like the pom-poms. I do."

Jones, meanwhile, had been critically appraising the hat. "I want one."

Neal looked at him. "Seriously?"

"Yeah! Well, not pancakes, but a Neal Caffrey original would be cool."

Neal smiled. "I can do that. I'll have some time on my hands for a little while, that's for sure."

"I want one too," Diana said. "How'd you come up with this design?"

Neal shrugged his good shoulder. "Peter calls me Peter Pan all the time, and I just looked at him and I thought, well his name actually _is_ Peter, so maybe he can be Peter Pancakes. I don't know. My mind does weird things sometimes."

"Well, the hat's definitely a keeper," Elizabeth said. "Just like the model," she added, gently squeezing her husband's hand. "And a very brave somebody made sure he got out of that warehouse in one piece, so thank you." She moved over to Neal and dropped a little kiss on his cheek. He gave her a slight smile.

Peter smiled for reasons of his own. Neal's eyelids were drooping and his blinking had slowed. "You should relax and try to sleep. We'll take care of the paperwork and get you back to June's in a few hours."

"M'kay." Neal closed his eyes.

Diana made a graceful exit. She gave Peter a hug, a wink, and a tug on his earflaps. With a wave to Elizabeth, she saw herself out. Jones settled into a chair. Peter fell asleep for another impromptu nap, and Elizabeth went to go find out about the transport van.

The consensus was that a gurney with a raised head was the best way to get him home, so Elizabeth called June again and explained. An hour later, a big, sturdy, husky guy in a courier's uniform arrived, juggling a small mountain of warm blankets and clothes. As Peter signed for it, he spotted the guy's name tag.

"Ray, is it? Well, thanks for coming so fast."

"No problem. Happy Holidays."

"You too."

Jones and the Burkes bundled up for the nasty weather outside, and the orderlies hefted Neal onto the gurney, which Elizabeth had prepared by spreading two blankets over it. As soon as Neal was laid out, she brought the blankets up and over him, and wrapped him snugly from chin to toe. Jones followed the doctor's directions, stuffing a pillow under Neal's injured foot and throwing a heavy quilt over him, and Peter put a plain knit cap on his head. Neal woke up a few minutes later. He looked like he was riding a dogsled pulled by invisible huskies. Fortunately, he was so loaded on pain medication that he didn't care, and he spent the next fifteen minutes smiling like a goofball at whoever happened to lean into his field of vision. At eight o'clock on the dot, Dr. Yuen gave them the nod, and it was time to go. Elizabeth walked on Neal's left, Jones walked on the right, Peter pushed the gurney from the back, and they formed a small honor guard to ferry Neal home. Even though Peter spent most of the evening inside, he didn't take off the pancake hat.

* * *

_December 25, 2010_

"Come on, you're almost there."

"I can't believe I fell asleep during dessert. That's pathetic."

"Well, your body's trying to heal. You need to rest."

"Yeah, because I haven't been doing that for four days," Neal grumbled.

He leaned his elbow crutches against the nightstand and Peter helped him hop the last step to the bed. Neal sat down heavily on the mattress. He'd done his best to make himself presentable for this afternoon, and he'd mostly succeeded. His facial injuries were healing up nicely, and he'd managed to put on a cozy gray sweater, black lounge pants, and one Ferragamo loafer for the occasion ... classy lounge wear that was easy to take off.

June's Christmas dinner was exceptional. Elizabeth, Peter, Mozzie, Jones, Diana and Christie had all shown up, and while Hughes was flattered at the invitation, he was trapped upstate with his large extended family and unable to make it. He sent his regards and regrets, along with one heck of a Christmas present. There weren't any sick days guaranteed in Neal's arrangement with the Bureau, which meant that any recovery time from illness or injury was technically supposed to be tacked onto the end of his sentence. Hughes felt this was profoundly unfair, especially since Neal had stuck his neck out for Peter, so he'd thrown around every ounce of his weight as SAC and got Neal's necessary absence counted as time served.

Neal toasted this good news with sparkling water, slightly envious of the wine at the other place settings. The drink was plentiful and the food was incredible. His appetite wasn't quite back – pain meds and cold medicine had that effect – but he managed about half a plate of excellent turkey and roasted vegetables and gratefully received two other presents, courtesy of everyone at the table. They had all gone in together on two generous gift certificates for him, one for a particular art supply house he was fond of, and one for KnitPunks, which was his favorite website for yarn. He laughed, they smiled, and June used the opportunity to demand a shawl from him as soon as he could manage one. He agreed and thanked them all. After dinner, everyone gathered in the parlor for coffee and pastries. Neal sat down in a wingback chair, propped his foot up on an ottoman, nibbled at a biscuit, took a few sips of his tea, and was lulled to sleep by the gentle murmur of conversation. Peter shook him awake fifteen minutes later and everybody agreed that he should go back to bed.

"You doing your ankle exercises?" Peter asked as he helped Neal out of the sweater, and straightened out the loose white thermal top that Neal wore underneath.

"Every day. My shoulder is getting stronger, too."

"I can see that. You're doing pretty well with the crutches," Peter said happily. "It's really coming along. Just don't stress yourself too much, okay? You're not cleared to go back to work until January."

Peter helped Neal get his left shoe off, and set his right foot on a small pillow. Neal leaned back against the pillows and tried to help grab the blankets that Peter was fussing with. June had decreed that he be kept as warm and comfortable as possible; the bed had been invaded by extra pillows and the comforter was weighed down by two quilts and a throw.

"Well, if I'm not fine by then…"

"I have no doubt that you will be." Peter had been imbibing throughout dinner, which meant it was dangerous to be around Neal right now. Several glasses of fine Prosecco had loosened his tongue. "And I'm glad you're all right, 'cuz I honestly don't know what I would do if you weren't. Speaking of which, I gotta tell ya. You're a hell of a fighter when you put your mind to it. I saw you with those guys, before they finally gotcha. You kicked some ass back there."

Neal considered this, and finally shrugged. "I just did what I had to do. I had to buy us some time."

Peter nodded and brought the blankets up and over Neal. "I know, and I'm grateful for what you did." He sighed. "And … thanks for the hat."

Neal gave him an amused grin that was all teeth. "Aw, Peter, I'm touched. Do you really like it, or did Elizabeth threaten you with starvation if you didn't say something?"

Peter's smile was small and warm and honest. "It's growing on me."

Neal accepted the compliment. "Good. Hey, maybe I'll knit you that matching scarf after all."

"Yeah, hey, maybe I'll strangle you with the matching scarf," Peter said, tucking the blankets around his partner.

"… Maybe I won't knit you a matching scarf," Neal said, allowing himself to be packed in.

Peter snorted, bringing the covers to Neal's chin. "Just promise me one thing, all right? Don't _ever_ try to save my life like that again. You almost gave me a heart attack."

Neal nodded. "It's a deal."

"All right." Satisfied that Neal was tucked in and warm enough, Peter stood. "Merry Christmas, Neal."

"Merry Christmas, Peter."

* * *

_January 10, 2011_

It was 11 AM. Peter, Diana, Jones, and Hughes were gathered in the conference room because a courier had arrived with three packages from a Mr. Neal Caffrey.

Diana took the plunge first. She read the tag: "_Thank you for a great Christmas. This is in honor of your favorite sports team._" She opened the small box and squealed in delight.

Peter, Jones, and Hughes watched as she put on a truly one-of-a-kind hat. It was done in wonderful grays and whites. Neal had designed it to look like a shark with big black button eyes, a gigantic mouth and a rather tiny body was trying to eat her head. The jaws of the creature were dotted with little knitted white teeth, and they formed the hat's base and ear flaps. The hat rose to a point with the help of some interior stuffing, and the crowning touch was a wibbly-wobbly knitted fish tail. The shark itself was wearing a little red knit cap with a fuzzy pom-pom on it, and "GO SHARKS" was overstitched on the back of the hat in red lettering, across the shark's side.

Jones opened his. "_Thank you for a great Christmas. This is in honor of your favorite jam_." Inside his package was a hat that looked like the top half of a strawberry, vibrant red with black seeds and knitted green leaves on top. Included in the leaves were two green pom-poms, for extra fuzziness. It was extremely well made, very detailed, and completely ridiculous. He put it on immediately and Diana started laughing at him.

Peter, who'd had some warning before leaving the house today, took out his pancake hat and put it on in a show of solidarity.

That just left a perplexed Reese Hughes, who stared at the wacky creations on the heads of his employees and was a little worried when he opened his package. He put on his reading glasses and had a look at the card. "_Thank you for pulling those strings. This is in honor of your favorite mode of transport. I saw the models in your office._"

Hughes put his glasses on the table and pulled out the hat. It was white, which conveniently matched his hair, with simple earflaps that trailed down into long tails, ending in white pom-poms. A tag inside the hat said "BACK," so Hughes quickly figured out how to put it on. He faced his subordinates and gave them the dourest look he could manage. They were trying not to laugh.

Coming up diagonally from the back of the hat and heading for Hughes's left eyebrow was a gray strip of overstitched railroad tracks. On either side of the train tracks were two little knitted trees, staggered a good distance from each other, their green tops overstitched with white so they looked like they were covered in snow. The trees were stuffed with bunting to make them stick straight up off the hat and attached to the track in between them was a knitted red engine, also stuffed and 'snow-dusted,' so Hughes's head looked like a snow-covered hill with a little train chugging up over the crest. His subordinates made the mistake of looking at each other, and they couldn't hold it together. Soon everybody was laughing, and when Hughes caught sight of himself in the reflection off the flat screen, he joined them.

"Burke, you've created a monster," Hughes said.

"I don't know," Jones said thoughtfully. "I'm kind of digging the idea of wearing a piece of art."

"You're not seriously considering leaving the house in that thing," Peter warned him. "You'll be laughed out of the country."

Diana was opening the Skype program on her laptop, because their consultant had agreed to telecommute from June's for a week until he was well enough to come back to work. "Oh, we have to show Neal. Come on, guys."

The men grumbled, but it was a mere thirty seconds out of their lives, and Diana eventually used the word "please," so they gave in. And when they showed Neal the hats, the honest joy on his face and his laughter ringing through the laptop's speakers was worth any inconvenience.

"You all look great. And, wait, announcement … I just got the okay to spend some time off the crutches."

"That's terrific," Diana said. "We'll see you here next week, right?"

"Yep, I'll be there on the 18th, bright and early," Neal confirmed.

"I'll pick you up at 7," Peter said, and Neal nodded on the screen.

"I'll be waiting. So, if there's nothing else you all need right now …"

"Nope, we're okay," Diana said. "Just get yourself together, and unless something comes up, we'll see you on Tuesday."

"Sounds good to me. Over and out."

* * *

Back in bed at June's, Neal turned off Skype, put the laptop aside, and finally registered the incredible mess of yarn spread out over the comforter. He absently scratched at the stubble on his cheek and looked around at the four different projects he had going.

"Yeah, I can finish this by then," he said to himself. "It'll be fine."

– END –

* * *

**Author's Note:**

The reviewer response to this project has blown me away. I would like to thank Neal, Peter and everybody else on White Collar for inspiring it, and all the folks here on FFN who have read and commented on it. Happy Holidays, everybody. See you in 2011.

Peace (on Earth),

Kiki (-;


End file.
